American Psycho

REVIEW
The self-congratulatory avarice of the '80s elegantly fused an antiseptic minimalism with a most conspicuous consumption. Patrick Bateman, played with obsessive splendor by Bale, skims with apparent effortlessness over the crest of the Reagan years' money tsunami. He's perfectly coifed and meticulously pampered, and the concentrated effort necessary to maintain the façade is starting to take its toll. No amount of consumerism can fill the void within this exquisitely wrapped, empty box. Perhaps it's the curse of self-awareness that pushes him over the line into the ultimate release of mass murder; when he looks in the mirror, there's nobody there, and nothing he can do can cure his self-loathing. But is he really that different from the people around him? His is a world of interchangable blondes on the arms of interchangable suits with interchangable sneering, vacant faces. His insanity is barely noticed in the world he inhabits, where murder is usually accomplished through merger. He is, in fact, a perfect representative of his life and times, a chameleon, essentially vapid, quintessentially banal, existentially adrift and unfettered. Director Harron has taken a dreadful book and crafted a wry entertainment, with able assistance from a picture-perfect cast.